lost
by CalPal052699
Summary: It starts with a burn, a pang, a call and a thought. And with each those beginnings, something ends, until she loses everything, one thing at a time.


**So, I should be working on the next chapter of WWEGU, or a prompt fill or somethings, but this came to me randomly, so here it is. Trigger warning: suicide and miscarriage.**

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><p><em>Her fiancé.<em>

It starts with a burn.

Flames lick at the bank, engulf the white-painted metal, tear her heart in two from a distance just not far enough. And the tears prick at her eyes, and fall as she cries, standing on the highway's shoulder as her world falls apart.

Family behind her, friends at her side, cops and firefighters working hard to tame the hellish flames. And it's just a small fire, contained in the ditch. The dirt remains dark, soaked by the water that flows from the hose, as the flames in the grass fade to nothing.

It all leaves a black crisp in it's wake, the grass incinerated, metal's integrity compromised, the car's paint chipped and the edges burnt like the edges of a slow-burning paper in a fire. And the flames are gone, but the tears are still in her eyes, on her dress, running down her chin and the column of her neck.

They jump into the ditch, officers of the Hamptons' PD, loud and in a blur of blue uniforms and hope as it fades from her heart, leaves a cold hole in it's wake. And she watches, but she already knows. She feels it consumed her, pump through her veins from the ache in her chest to the edges of her being.

She knows. She feels it: the hole in her life, the something missing, the loss and the grief and it consumes her. And she collapses to her knees before they say the words, before they confirm there is a body. The dress cushions her fall, layers of tulle, and she cries.

It's him. It's Castle. She already knows, doesn't need dental records checked or an ME's tests to confirm it. She knows. Hope is gone, and she loses it, crumples into a pile of limp limbs and a broken heart, and she cries into the layers of tulle and the gravel of the highway shoulder.

He's gone. She's alone...again. She lost him.

So she cries.

And she does it all again when it's confirmed the next day.

She lost him. She lost hope. She falls apart.

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><p><em>Her baby.<em>

It starts with a pang.

It tears through her abdomen, lights her nerves on fire and she feels like she's been stabbed. And yet she still feels numb. Tears prick at her eyes, roll down her cheeks and soak into the pillow below her, the bedspread wrapped around her.

Alone in the bedroom, engulfed by the dark, she does nothing but cry. She's done nothing but cry. Because the pain is too much, the grief is all-consuming, the loneliness weighs heavy on her chest, and there's nothing else to do, no case to solve, no family to turn to, no hope.

The baby should have brought it. The baby should bring hope. But it just brings more pain, more depression, more dark. From the first moment it made it's existence known, it's brought nothing but dark. It pulled her into the darkness, and down to the ground. The world faded to black, until Alexis found her, unconscious, pale and sick and _pregnant_...that's what the doctor said.

But she couldn't do it. She can't. She can't feel love for this baby, this thing that makes everything hurt so much more. She can't do it alone. And her mom is gone. And Castle is gone. And she can barely move because it consumes her. It all consumes her. The grief, the loss, the loneliness, it's too much. And she can't reach for the phone, can't react to the physical pain that's centered in her stomach, because it matches the emotional pain, and she just feels numb.

Alexis finds her, blood coating the bedspread down by her waist, her body curled into a ball, tears soaking her cheeks and the material of everything that surrounds her. And from the younger woman's gasp, she knows. And she didn't expect it, but she feels another hole in her life, in her heart.

The doctor confirms it after she gets to the hospital. Her baby is gone, a small heart no longer beating. And the doctor doesn't say it, but she knows. It's her fault. Her and her grief and the pain and the loneliness and an innocent child had to pay for her inadequacy.

She curls into a ball and deals with the pain, in her stomach, in her chest.

And she cries.

And she refuses medication, threatens to rip out her IV, because she doesn't care.

She lost her baby. She lost any chance at having hope. And she falls apart.

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><p><em>Her job.<em>

It starts with a call.

It echoes off her bedroom walls, in her ears and makes her pounding headache all that much worse. And she reaches for her phone, because she can do that now. She can move again, even though it hurts, makes her heart beat a little faster, her mind go back to the good days that she misses so much.

She needs to distract herself. That's what she told herself when she forced herself to move again. Well, the therapist told her she has to move on, has to continue to live her life, despite the pain. She translated that to distracting herself, so she forced herself to move.

Her phone is cold in her palm, holds memories she tries to fight away, she wants to forget so she can live again. They consume her: memories of case details shared in text messages, of intimacy even from across many miles. And she feels the tears pricking in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, before she can even think about stopping them.

She answers the call, forces images back at the sound of her therapist's familiar, deep, calm tone. And he somehow knows, knows she's crying. And with soft words, he manages to calm her down, makes her heart rate return to normal, her mind go numb again. She likes being numb.

His next words hurt, make her feel again and she hates it. She hates feeling now. All she ever feels is pain. And when she lets herself think, she realizes that's probably why she's not allowed to go back to work. But she doesn't want to think. She doesn't let herself think. And she hangs up without saying a word.

She manages to call the precinct, plans on informing Gates on her situation, on her failure, her inadequacy. Instead, she resigns. It's not like the pain will ever go away, and she'll never be _good _again. She'll never be ready to go back. The memories will be too much. They won't let her be numb. So she quits.

It distracted her before, but this time it can't. Nothing can.

So she puts her phone back down and lays down on the bed.

She pushes back all thoughts, ignores all regret, all pain, all sense of loss.

She lost her job. She lost her distraction. So she's just numb.

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><p><em>Herself.<em>

It starts with a thought.

They've been unwelcome for months, _thoughts, _because they bring nothing but pain. She hasn't really thought in months, she's done nothing but sleep, done nothing but feel numb. Because being numb is better than thinking, being numb is better than pain.

This thought, though, it seems to bring relief. For the first time since she lost him, since she lost hope, something brings relief. Something makes her feel _something_, and it's not pain, and it's not numbness and her chest feels less empty, her world seems less dark.

And she pushes herself off the bed, feeling so useless, so weak. Because she is week. She's barely done anything in months, barely eaten, barely moved and it all hurts now. Everything hurt, except that thought, the one that pushes her off the bed, out of the darkness for a single moment in time.

She stops at the bedroom safe, grabs the gun that's been in there for nearly a year now, since she first moved in. Her personal piece, the one they never took away, and it feels foreign in her hand. Everything feels foreign now. _Feeling_ feels foreign now.

She walks into the bathroom, gun in one hand, darkness blurring the edges of her world as she sees everything. Bottles of pills are on one side of the vanity, orange with prescriptions stuck to the sides, prescription bottles too full for her to even claim she took them. Not that it matters anymore. It won't matter. It never mattered. From that horrible day, nothing mattered.

She looks up at the mirror, sees herself for the first time in months. She looks weak, she looks frail. She looks broken, and she feels broken, too. And she knows it won't take much. So she tightens her grip on the gun, and yet her grip is still loose because she is too weak. And she manages to lift the gun up, press the barrel to the side of her head, looks into her own eyes one last time.

There's no love, not anymore. There's no hope, it was taken away. And there's no distraction.

So she turns off the safety, pulls her finger tighter around the trigger.

This thought, it brings relief. And she feels no fear, feels no pain. She pulls the trigger.

She wants to see her fiancé. She wants to see her baby. So she gives up.


End file.
